Chapter 43

It was summer 1946 when Shaun landed in England.

London still bore the scars of the bombing, Shaun noticed. The people went about their business as life slowly returned to normal after what they had endured through the war. Rationing of petrol and food was strictly in place which accounted for the lack of transport on the roads.

Shaun booked into the Russel Square Hotel and after a bath made a long distance telephone call to the number Prof had given him in Paris. He had to wait for ten minutes before he was connected to Bobby’s office.

“Major Dole”, a tinny voice said at the other end of the line.

“Hello Bobby. It’s Shaun”, he said into the receiver.

There was a pause at the other end of the line then, “Shaun, you old sod, it’s great to hear you again”, the voice rushed on excitedly, “Are you in Paris?”

Shaun smiled at the reception, “No, I’m in London, but hope to get over there tomorrow if I can find a hotel”.

“Bollocks to a hotel! You’ll stay with me. I have a flat with plenty of room. Got a pencil? I’ll give you the address”.

Shaun found a pen and paper and wrote down the address Bobby gave him.

“When you know what flight you’re on let me know and I’ll pick you up”, Bobby continued.

Later in the day he phoned through the flight details.

Shaun excited the DC3 along with the other passengers, most of whom were in uniform, at Le Bourget airport and made his way to the terminal shed.

As he stepped out on the other side of the shed he saw Bobby in uniform standing alongside a Humber Staff car. As he walked towards him carrying his case a Corporal came and took the case from him. “I’ll see to this for you sir”, he said taking charge of the case.

The next thing he found himself in a bear hug from Bobby. Breaking free he looked into the smiling face of his friend. “God Shaun, it’s so good to see you”.

Shaun looked into Bobby’s face. The face had aged beyond his years in some ways. His eyes that had always been bright and happy now looked somewhat dull and crow’s feet lines emanated from the corners of them. He knew from the talks with Prof that Bobby had been in the thick of it from D-Day until the final surrender.

They climbed into the car as the Corporal slid behind the wheel.

“Back to the flat Simms, then you can take the rest of the day off”.

On the drive to the flat Shaun noticed the lack of public transport. Most, like London, were service vehicles. The people on the street looked drab as they shuffled along.

Bobby noticed Shaun’s stare. “Rationing is harder here than in London. It’s not too bad out in the country but food and petrol are in short supply. The black market is a cottage industry and some are making a fortune out of it”.

The Humber pulled up in a narrow lane between rows of houses that looked to be four stories high. The Corporal led the way with Shaun’s case into a lift which seemed to be encased in wrought ironwork.

“I’m on the top floor”, Bobby murmured. “I took possession of it from a German Colonel”, he said with a grin.

On opening the door Shaun could see that the Colonel had not skimped in making the flat comfortable. Simms dropped the case and departed. Bobby picked it up, “You’re through here”, and he said leading the way into a bedroom. “If you want to clean up there should be some hot water available. I’ll go and pour out some drinks”.

After a quick wash Shaun made his way back to the lounge. Bobby had removed his battledress jacket and now sat in shirt sleeves on a high backed leather armchair in front of a coffee table on which two drinks in cut-glass beakers were poured.

Shaun took a seat in a twin of the chair Bobby was seated in. “Cheers”, Bobby said, raising his glass. Shaun made the necessary reply, tasting what was obviously a malt scotch.

“You certainly live well”, Shaun murmured.

Bobby chuckled, “To the victors lay the spoils”.

“So”, continued Shaun “have you heard anything about Tim and Bill?”

Bobby’s face fell. “They both went into Arnhem and didn’t make it out”, he said quietly. “I was with XXX Corps trying to get through to them”.

Shaun felt the loss of his former friends strike him like a punch to the gut.

“They were bloody good blokes”, he murmured taking another drink.

A silence entered the room as each man remembered their former comrades.

“To absent friends”, Shaun murmured as he raised his drink.

“Absent friends”, Bobby replied. “So”, he continued to break the mood. “How’s things in Kenya?”

Shaun brought him up to date with what had been done at the Crater and about Sharon and his son, but saying nothing about what he intended to do regarding training the Israelis.

Later they went downstairs to have a meal at a local bistro. Sat outside drinking their Cognac and smoking a cigarette Shaun asked how come Bobby had not been demobbed.

“The Brass”, he chuckled, “in their superior wisdom decided to extend my service by six months to enable me to finish the job I started”.

Shaun frowned “what job?”

“Basically, to round up all the weapons that are laying around Europe and dispose of them”.

“You mean the German weapons”, Shaun queried.

“German, American, English and Italian, and there is a hell of a lot of them”.

“So what happens to them when you find them?” Shaun asked.

Bobby laughed, “They get melted down to turn into plough blades, or so the story goes”.